The Snows of Winterfell: The First Song - Vengeance of the She-Wolf
by The One True Queen
Summary: <html><head></head>Ellaria Stark, Robb's twin, has managed to escape most of the misfortune that has taken her family. In her grief for those taken from her, she has vowed to finish what her brother started and raze the South as the She-Wolf of Winter. Her wish? To make House Frey, Bolton, and Lannister regret their attempts to erase her name-to have her Vengeance on those who wronged the North...</html>
1. Verse One: The She-Wolf (Ellaria)

***DISCLAIMER: THIS STORY IS A DIRECT REFORMATTING OF MY ROLE-PLAY; THE LINK IS BELOW. FEEL FREE TO CHECK IT OUT, BUT IF YOU DON'T HAVE ANYTHING NICE TO SAY ABOUT THE EXCEPTIONALLY HARD WORK THESE PEOPLE HAVE PUT INTO THIS THREAD, AT LEAST MAKE IT CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM-WHICH MEANS MAKE IT NICE! NO ONE NEEDS NEGATIVITY FROM OUTSIDE SOURCES. **

**_A Song of Ice and Fire: Vengeance of the She-Wolf -_ forum/A-Song-of-Ice-and-Fire-Vengeance-of-the-She-Wolf/141333/**

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><p><span><strong>VERSE ONE – THE SHE-WOLF<strong>

**_Line One: Ellaria_**

They are gone, all of them, and she was alone.

Ever since Father was murder in King's Landing, she had seen no one; it's hard to tell which of them were even alive. Mother, Father, Robb, Richard, Arya, Bran, and Rickon—all of them, they are gone. Sansa surely isn't so far behind, as Ellaria obviously had not seen her since the day everyone left for that wretched place in the South. I am so alone here, in Winterfell.

Robb and Mother had let her come with him, and we let Bran and Rickon die alone for our foolishness. With father gone, Robb and she were old enough to be considered grown, no longer children to be protected from the ways of mortal men. Mother and did our best to help him when he called for Father's Banners, and Greatjon Umber declared him King In The North—was that before or after Grey Wind decided to try a bite out of him for insulting my brother in the first place? That night was so wonderful and full of smiles that she couldn't remember, as heavy as her wine flowed despite her inability to hold it for long.

It had been the only way to keep Father from getting to us, to go to war and keep ourselves distracted from the pain, to turn it onto the Lannisters in retribution—and then it all came crashing down that long night, one month ago. The world ended all over again, Ellaria was afraid to fall off of its face and into an abyss. Robb won every battle he fought in, ceased lands held by turncoats who backed the Iron Throne and all of the things it stood for. That night, they were betrayed, and almost all of it was torn away again—she could hear them screaming, the men and Mother and Robb's pretty wife, Talisa. She could hear Grey Wind howling and fighting the kennel they had locked him away in, preventing him from escaping and saving them all. She herself was only alive by the grace of the Old Gods and Lord Aerik Mormont, although he refused to be granted anything deserving of his bringing her home to this burned city before the Freys could kill her as well.

They call her the She-Wolf and Queen in the North now, and gave her her brother's crown. It's so heavy—too heavy –and almost too big for her; even though they were twins, Robb had almost always bene bigger than Ellaria, along with Jon. He's gone, too, a sworn brother of the honorable Night's Watch. She wants to hate him for escaping this place when he did—she is reminded of them, all of them, every day.

But she will have her revenge. The She-Wolf will burn the Crossing, and launch every Frey into their own fucking moat, their riches tied to their wastes and their hands and their ankles. The She-Wolf will flay every Bolton and feed them all to his bastard's bitches.

The She-Wolf will bury them in the snow.

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><p>Ellaria awoke from her thoughts with a small yelp into the dank air, shivering uncontrollably in the deep darkness, having nearly pitched herself down the narrowing, wilding stone steps that would lead her to the entombed. Her cheeks were itching and threatening to freeze on her cheeks as they were, and it was something she could not have, her skin cold and surely as white as snow. She was having a difficult time holding them back, despite the fact that she was presently without human company. The young woman held a lantern in her grasp to light her way, as the old and heavy ironwood door kept most of the light out.<p>

She knew she could not show her pain on the surface, not now—not when she had a duty to keep as level a head as possibly for her people. Too many were expecting to see her strong too soon, and she was afraid to show how much pain she was really in. Yet here in the Crypt of Winterfell alone with her direwolf, the young Queen knew she could let her heart scream over and over where no one but the spirits would hear. Well, them as well as Ser Markus Reullis—a good friend who had a somewhat irritating habit of finding Ellaria when she didn't want to be found.

The new Queen in the North instinctively followed the silver-white form of Winter's Keeper as the female guided her into the most recently quarried tombs of the Winter Kings. They moved past the numerous pairs of granite pillars two by two until they veered to the right, where the latest sepulchers of the House Stark lay. There stood the stone likenesses of Eddard and Robb Stark, iron swords rested on their knees, ready to keep spirits as vengeful as she from wandering. Father's sword had gone missing during the Sack of Winterfell, but it had been replaced, along with Brandon's and Rickard's; Robb's tomb had been freshly erected days ago with Grey Wind, a brother to Winter's Keeper, curled about at the Young Wolf's feet. Both his and Father's were empty, and it bothered her that there was no one to talk to—in fact, they were all empty, and Ellaria let out a sob as she wished to anyone who hear that they were laden with the bodies of her kin. There were several more mounds of partially cut stone set into their designated alcoves, yet unfinished—they were for Mother and the rest of her brothers and sisters and their direwolves, all gone save for Sansa and her Lady, who was buried lichyard and seranded into the realm of the dead by her brothers and sisters.

First, she went to Father's statue; Winter's Keeper made a soft noise as she spread out her dark blue skirts and sat on the icy stones in front of him. direwolf circled her and then lay curled half around her for overtly welcome warmth. Ellaria's heart ached as she stared into the stone carving of her father's face, his expression strong and his countenance proud. It was as if he was there, in the flesh, giving her one of his small, infrequent smiles... If only the Gods could give a man back his head. She took a heavy, shuddering breathe and sent the Gods a silent prayer for her father before turning to the statue of her twin brother.

She felt unwholesome without him in this world—especially with no other Stark to turn to when the rest of them were laying right next to him. That aching let room into her chest and gave way to a hollow feeling, and Ellaria was afraid that she would never be whole again, not even when her younger sister and heir was safe and protected within the First Keep. In fact, her half-brother Jon was a man of the Night's Watch who had forsworn his family—by her father's own mechanisms, no less —and was such never a Stark despite Robb's plans to legitimize him. Even though his name Snow, she never considered him illegitimate in the first place, and which there had bene time for Robb to send word and bring him home... And so, there were no Starks left in the North but her.

With the weight of having lost those who personified the pieces of her heart, she was left barren and alone. The sobs kept coming, a flood much like the sea that had drowned Winterfell in blood, and they echoed like screams into the vaulted ceiling above her head. She turned her head into the silver-grey coat of her direwolf and cried her heart out yet again. She had lost track of time by then, never with the capability to tell whenever she visited the forever empty tombs of her family; by her eyes could no longer produced tears, and after she had half-slept for some minutes or hours afterwards, she lifted her head to see that her lantern was almost out.

It was time to go, until she could spare more time, something she had too much of if there hadn't bene much for her to do as Queen. Ellaria had pushed herself partially away from Winter's Keeper when she felt the muscle in her back tense for a moment, and then relax just as swiftly. Footsteps echoed on the stone just soon after, and the she-wolves rose their gazes from the warmth to brace the cold. Torchlight glowed in the icy darkness, and they could just make out the handsomely shadowed face of Markus. Ellaria swiftly caught the tears on her cheeks that hadn't been cleaned by the direwolf's coat and swiped them away, leaving her fair skin temporarily red; she sniffled and looked away from his tall, approaching figure in order to collect herself. She had seen Markus' face on numerous occasions, when she was in a mood as empty as a cloudy winter sky, and it always bothered her, his current expression. She never liked it, usually because a smile was never able to stray too far from Markus' face for long—and without one, he never looked right. He looked just as weary as she felt. A heavy sigh escaped through her nose, and she gave him a weary smile.

"I've been down here so long that you had to come and fetch me, Markus?"

"Of course, Ellaria," he answered with a smile of his own, adding somewhat cryptically, "I'll always come."

Winter's Keeper made a soft noise, and Ellaria's hand moved of its own accord to scratch her behind the ear as her heavy head rested in her lap among her skirts. The Queen turned back to her father and twin brother, and her pewter and ice blue eyes lost their light before she closed them again. Ellaria was beginning to send the Gods a silent prayer, but was interrupted as a man's voice called out from somewhere above, startling them both,

"Your Grace! The Red Reasoner has asked for an audience!"

Winter's Keeper lifted her head and pushed herself onto her paws; she padded back the way they had come without further hesitance, and Ellaria took it as a signal that she should resume her queenly duties. It was hard not to notice how mockingly Tybalt Lannister's epithet had been used; after all, the foolish man had been captured by her brother because he was fool enough to come to Winterfell in order to negotiate his brother's release from custody. She shook her head at his daftness and stood slowly on stiff legs, brushing the dirt from her skirts as she moved to Markus' side.

"I could use good company," she told him as she impulsively took his offered arm.

"I know."

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><p>Together with Markus and Winter's Keeper, Ellaria strode through the hollow keep of Winterfell on natural instinct, following a path she had walked so many times in the past month—especially since the Lannister's capture in Riverrun. Her fingers instinctively curled into a tuft of her direwolf's coat, and the couple and their guard returned to the Dungeons her prisoner called home. The moment Winter's Keeper began to growl, the young Queen steeled herself for what was to come: a battle of words and wills.<p>

Even if he was a bloody Lannister, she never really liked to see the man chained to the stones at his back and mistreated by her men for the hell of it. She hadn't been able to agree with Robb's treatment of Jamie, either—Mother would always turn her words against her, however, just as the Bannermen have done with Tybalt. It had been an argument she was having with her brother, feeding into his frustration and stress; he had nearly put her on house arrest, so tired was he of her constant moaning of Lannister retribution.

"Can we not treat him with some decency? How do we know that your brutality will not add wood to the fires and give the Lannisters more reason to think they must crush us, Robb?"

"How do you think your sisters are being treated, Ellaria, now that your father is dead? If Arya and Sansa are not dead already, they will have been beaten—and much worse. This man is the Kingslayer: the only person this side of the Narrow Sea that we have as leverage to gain the girls' freedom. We must be seen as strong and unwavering, willing to do anything in order for our demands to be met."

Her face morphed into a mask of stone as her mother's voice slipped away from her; the She-Wolf didn't want any man present to see her weaken, and a harsh frown darkened her features as they came upon Tybalt's cell. The man was in terrible shape from what she could see beyond the dim torchlight: his hair was a dirty and overgrown golden weed sprouting from his crown and face; his clothes were in pitiful tatters, ripped and torn asunder; she could even see that one of his boots was missing a heel.

"Seven Hells, you look half dead—a state I, despite my people's intentions, cannot have you in," she said gravely, her old self slipping through the cracks in her armor as her brow knitted with small worry lines.

"Someone get him out of this damned cell!"

The words burst from her raspy throat; the guards only hesitated a moment longer, and Winter's Keeper gave a sharp bark. The door to his cell was unlocked and Tybalt Lannister was halfway unchained when she forced herself to turn away from the sight, silently ordering them to follow her to the Great Hall. Behind her, Tybalt gave a weak chuckle,

"Please gents no fuss. Just feeling a bit under the weather is all. Little wine and meat and I'll be right as rain. Well rain as in the water that falls from the sky. Reyne the family is a different matter. They are anything but fine..."

He was babbling, which was actually usual for him; Ellaria was beginning to wonder if she had left him down here in the darkness for a tad too long when he added, "Speaking of Reynes... We must discuss something akin to them, mi'lady."

Ellaria shook her head slightly at his manner of the baseborn pronunciation, the urge to snap at him for the slight to her title saved when Markus did it for her. Tybalt Lannister had happened to be born under the wrong name, and so had been imprisoned for over a month for it. She honestly didn't think there was any room for him be so easy if he wanted to survive his stay in the North. Naturally, she turned his favored tune against him, reciting a pair of the memorable lines of the cautious melody before adding,

"Your father felled the Red Lions years ago, Tybalt Lannister—so what reason could we possibly have to speak of them?"

He waited to reply until they were inside the Great Hall, and she rose the dais with Markus at her back to sit on the Granite Throne. Of course, Tybalt's voice is solemn and serious as he speaks, but she still finds his words quite insulting.

"Because, it is about to happen again, except the song will now be _the Snows of Winterfell_.

My father holds onto a grudge for longer than is good for him. He has the support of the Westerlands, the Reach, parts of the Stormlands, the Freys, _and_ the Boltons. He means to wipe House Stark from memory. He has killed the alpha male and the matron and their oldest pup, he holds one pup, another has gone missing, and the kraken strangled the last two. Now it's you and a ragtag group of lords in a ruined castle soon to be set upon by enemies. You now have one choice.

Negotiate."

Ice pierced her chest, having stiffened at the mention of her family's bedraggled state. The Starks were forever lost, never to be found. Ellaria knew full well just how badly she needed support. Theon Greyjoy was a traitorous bastard who would rather suck his father's cock dry than stay loyal to her— her _family_. The support of her Bannermen sans the Boltons was a fragile thing, a taunt swing back and forth in front of her until she could actually prove herself in battle just as any man could; action behind the words was all that mattered. The Riverlords were with her in a sense, even if the house that held the Crossing were as much a load of turncoat wenches as Theon and the Lords of the Dreadfort. And The Vale would back her, if only her terribly insipid Aunt Lysa would actually lend aid to her family instead of coddling an unstable boy-child who needed some sense knocked into his head by force.

The urge to knock him onto the stones at her feet was so strong, she could barely contain herself. She almost turned on him and used her ring hand, which was laden down with signets and seals, but she didn't want to break the man's jaw before she heard what he had to say to her. With clenched fists, the red-haired Tully-like Stark forced herself to lack motion. Her voice was soft and hoarse, but deliberate in enunciation.

"From where I stand, _you_ are the one who has reason enough to negotiate, Tybalt Lannister. Now speak your peace, or you will be reacquainted with the walls of your cell."

"I say it how it is. Believe me mi'lady, I wish none of this had ever happened. But things have spiraled out of control. Your allies run few. Your sister herself is a Lannister. So I need to ask you to do this: endure. Let the Starks live on. Let me negotiate with my father for you. Most likely you will be stripped of the title of Lords Paramount and Wardens of the North, but you would keep Winterfell.

_You would all live. _

I cannot guarantee you the revenge you want against the Freys and Boltons but I can promise you that you will survive. Do not make me watch as you let your pride be your downfall. I do not want to see you raped by Freys and then flayed by Boltons while hanging over your own gates. Negotiate! Please. Let me help you end it all. The blood-shed, the betrayal, all of it. Enough have died. _Live._ Let House Stark continue.

_Do not become Reynes!_"

"_Sansa is no Lannister—mind your tongue, my lord._ My sister is a prisoner of that arrogant _little bastard_ you call Nephew, who thinks he rules from the Iron Throne. And yes, my allies are few, but we are not Wardens—_ I_ am no Warden. We have been Kings and Queens in the North since Bran the Builder laid the foundation for this castle; since even after the King Who Knelt earned his name..."

On her throne, Ellaria remained quiet and contemplative for a few moments, attempting to understand why such a genuine expression of worry had come over Tybalt's face as his words filled the air. Her words suddenly faltered under the weight of her situation, and the confusion as her thoughts jumbled together. Tybalt's plea had been so sincere—_why_? She shook her head and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Why in the world should I trust a single word _you_ say? You are _a Lanniste_r! _Lannisters_ have a knack for _lying_, you know, pray tell me, what exactly should I say to your father to abate his so called "wrath"? And what would you care if the Freys and the Boltons _did_ disgrace me?

Yet again, I say that you are a _Lannister_! _You_ took my family_! All of them_! I have _no one_, Tybalt; do you know what that feels like? To lose every single person you love to the people _you hate the most?!"_

Her voice had risen in octaves, until she was screaming at him, but she hadn't been able to tell until she'd stopped. Her cheeks were a feverish red as the blood in her body rushed to her face and angry, frustrated tears spilled over unnoticed as her chest heaved. The man was stirring her blood on purpose, but she couldn't help being goaded into the reaction; it was something she had wanted to say for the longest time, she wanted him to know just how much pain his family had caused her. The guard shifted in their armor, hands hovering over the hilts of their swords or blatantly grasping them, and Ellaria knew that they would gladly slaughter Tybalt Lannister in the breath she would draw to give the order.

In this instant, she nearly gave in to the temptation to make Tywin Lannister feel as she felt every day. She would take his son just as he had taken Mother and Robb and Arya and Sansa. And then she would take Joffery from Cersei, so that she would know Mother's pain for herself. Ellaria wanted so badly to make them hurt, pure and simple… Markus stood quietly behind her, but the familiar whisper of metal against leather told her that he had brandished his long spear. In the face of his surely imminent death, Tybalt replied quietly as though he understood her every word,

"I took no one from you. It was Ser Ilyn Payne under Joffery's command who cut your father's head off. It is _Joffery_ who holds Sansa now. It was _Roose Bolton_ who stabbed your brother. It was _Raymund Frey_ who cut your mother's throat. I am Tybalt Lannister. Now maybe my last name does make me a liar, but what is that saying about Lannisters and debts?"

Ellaria attempted to compose herself, but she couldn't keep her hands from shaking. Her direwolf was surely on the verge of tearing out his throat, and she thought that she would surely get to him before Markus and the guard did. Perhaps that would be a mercy, letting Winter's Keeper maul him to death before the men got their hands on him? So the fuck what Tybalt himself had personally nothing to do with the butchering of her family?! He was his father's son, and that old and bitter bastard was a ruthless demon!

"A Lannister always pays his debts," she scoffed at Tybalt, unable to keep the full weight of her icy glare from him.

"If you haven't noticed, Winter has come to Westeros, my lord. The ice and the snow will blanket this world and nothing will stop it. Heed me when I say that m_ine_ is the fury."

She wiped angrily her cheeks again and settled back into her throne. Reaching up and backwards, she ran a hair through her dark red hair and glanced over her shoulder at Markus. He looked just as murderous as she had been moments ago, although his intent had yet to be abated. She could see how tightly he gripped his spear—his knuckles were snow white. After a few more moments of gauging the reaction of every other Northman in the room she sighed heavily, feeling foolish and weak for her reaction to Tybalt even when she tried to keep her emotions in check. She glanced at the weary-looking man and gave a soft huff of indignation. Damn him, but he was actually a reasonable man…

But why? Why must he make good sense when faced with sword and the wrath of the Queen? If she didn't know better, Ellaria would wonder if he had ever been faced with his own mortality before. Of course she doubted that he ever had until these past moments, or when Robb first captured him for the sake of leverage against the Lannisters for Sansa's release…. She blinked, almost staring at Tybalt whilst the thoughts raced about in her mind. She didn't actually have the kill him—perhaps if she could make the Lannister believe that she would, however, that would make getting Sansa back all the more easier!

Quickly, Ellaria spoke up before the idea ruined itself in her mind.

"Markus, would you see to it that Tybalt is bathed, fed, and clothed? He has been in the dungeons for too long—I cannot murder a guest in my own lest my I wish to incite the Gods' wrath, after all…"

Ellaria rubbed her eyes again and stood, resisting the urge to worry her bottom lip and talk herself out of it as she moved somewhat gracefully down to the floor in order to be level with Tybalt.

"You are no longer my prisoner, Tybalt Lannister, but a guest in my home. Consider yourself welcome until I say otherwise."

He nodded and stood from his position, looking her in the eye so blatantly that she was taken aback for the moment. It was quite forward, and almost even rude; Tybalt Lannister wasn't a man to keep protocol, it seemed—how seemingly unfortunate for him. She noted that his sharp emerald eyes now held something else, although he couldn't quite place it. Was that pity? Sympathy? It is was, she may just put him back into those horrible chains herself; Ellaria wasn't prone to being pitied for really any reason, so she felt as though he was looking down on her for some reason.

There was also something odd there, something even more difficult to take note of than any other emotions…. _Affection_? But it was impossible to tell before he looked back down to the ground and stood up to follow Markus. Ellaria watched him go, frowning hard at the back of his head. Just as he neared the heavy doors of the Great Hall, he said over his shoulder,

"And once more mi'lady, my condolences. I don't know how it feels to lose all that. Sad thing is... I've never had it to lose it anyway. Sleep well, Your Grace."

How ironic, a Lannister actually apologizing for something. She kept her face in a cool mask, refusing to show just how much those rare words affected her. Who was he to make her feel this sympathy and pity for a man with a name she despised? He was nothing—overtly fortunate to be of use to her, and so she shouldn't feel obligated for any reason to take care of him. The only thing that kept him alive was the fact that Sansa's life depended on him. She was all Ellaria had, and she would damn sure make certain that her sister never had to fear for her life again, and neither would she ever leave the North.

"My lord."

Ellaria watched the men go before she turned away from the door. Her feet, on the heels of Winter's Keeper, at last carried her to her private quarters; she had done nothing to alter them from the way her parents had, a testament to their memory and her love for them. There, Ellaria waved off any maid who tried to assist her and undressed herself, as she was in no mood for the idle gossip of ninnies. She drew her own bath, and the laid down to rest with her head on her direwolf's flank until supper was ready, so much of her energy having been spent in so little time.


	2. Verse One: The She-Wolf (Tybalt)

**_The Snows of Winterfell – The First Song: Vengeance of the She-Wolf_**

**_VERSE ONE – THE SHE-WOLF_**

**_Line Two: Tybalt_**

Tybalt strolled through the ruins of Winterfell in the night, a fur cloak draped about his shoulders. His Lannister signet ring glistened in the moonlight as he strolled through the gardens. The wind tried to beat at him, but he refused to let it in, and drew it closer about his body; he had no idea how these Northerners were so accustomed to the cold—the descendants of the First Men were quite hardy indeed. His cleaning the hair off of his face didn't help reserve his warmth, either. He had been keeping himself washed and fed, but that certainly didn't help the fact that Ellaria had been giving him a more then cold shoulder. Whenever he would sit down to dine, she would get up to leave even if she hadn't finished.

As he walked, he thought of how all the violence had broken a family—hers, his, and too many more to account for. For him it was a hard concept to think of; Tybalt barely remembered his mother, and his father had emotionally parted ways with all of them the very same day; his sister was little more than a well-dressed whore, his older brother was a cocky knight who, while friendly enough, made no effort to even seem honorable—and dear, dear Tyrion was all but ignored by his family. The only family he had really ever felt any love for had been his uncle Gerion. Gerion was said to take after Grandfather Tytos' peaceful attitude—a true role model in Tybalt's eyes. He also had the unfortunate task of being a second son, and so naturally he and Gerion had something in common. He remembered being bounced up and down on his knee while singing songs like _The Lion Who Lost His_ Roar and _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_.

Tybalt had loved Gerion. And then the jolly dreamer sailed off to Old Valyria and never returned, in search of a sword that had been lost for less than long enough already.

And Tybalt was left to the cold regard of his father.

The Lannister gave a sigh as he looked up at the moon, wishing his uncle, mother, and grandfather weren't forced to be punished for their relations' choices. He wished Ellaria didn't have to be punished, either. She often held a sorrowful expression when she though no one was watching her—even though she was always being watch, personally by Tybalt himself. He hadn't had a difficult time of noticing that the young Queen often wandered outside of her Hall alone, taking a nightly routine walk about the castle grounds. Tonight, he was glad to see, was open of those nights.

He heard the door to the gallery walk open and close, as he had committed the very same action when he had stolen from the Keep to come outside. He half turned to watch her, somehow delighted by the simple movements she made. She pulled her unlined, dark grey cloak tighter about her shoulders as she walked on, towards the Godswood. When Ellaria came closer he turned back to face the other way and used everything he had to feel her movements form then on. She surely must have seen him, however, he had felt more rather than saw her pause in her step some distance behind him, as though she were unsure of what to say after not speaking to him for days.

He remained still, so as not to startle her further, although he turned when he took note of a shift and saw that she was half turned to go. She shivered as an icy breeze lifted her skirts and brushed against her legs, and kept moving so as not to freeze where she stood. The young woman didn't seem so bothered by the frigid cold that whipped her hair from her shoulders than the recent ice that had settled into her heart; she had been little more than cruel to Tybalt these past few days, blatantly ignoring him whenever she caught sight of him- much to her men's delight he did not doubt. Tybalt understood, however, although he wished she would see that he wasn't who she made him out to be. He was sure she just couldn't stand to be reminded that a Lannister walked her halls, although it made him wonder why she had released him from his imprisonment and made him an Honored Guest. She was a woman he was sure did not want to seem weak to her Bannermen, and Tybalt was almost certain that her actions were beginning to make her seem weak—a mindset he did not want her men to carry with them.

He was very glad that she visibly mustered her courage and forced her chin into the air, moving to his side.

The clouds pulled away from the moon, bathing Winterfell in pale silver, white, and blue—it reminded him so much of those eyes that bore into him now. Without taking his eyes from above, Tybalt chuckled a bit after a few moments as his mood was lightened by the person he could never go long without seeing.

"Evening Your Grace."

"My Lord," she said softly, her breathe misting into the air. Clearing her throat, she asked him,

"Are you watching the moon?"

Tybalt gave a small nod. "Yes. And no. My eyes are looking at it but my mind... my mind is moving between Casterly Rock and Valyria."

"Your home? How reasonable..." Ellaria murmured, but then frowned slightly in what he read as confusion. It was actually rather endearing, the way she did that with such genuineness.

"But if I may ask, why Valyria?"

Tybalt turned fully towards her then, his eyes meeting hers. "That is where my uncle Gerion sailed off to and never returned. When I found out, I begged my father to give me a ship to look for him. Do you know what his response was?"

Here, he chuckled again before continuing with, "'The damn fool wanted to get himself killed then that's his problem. I'm not wasting my son on that joke of a brother of mine.' I never looked at my father the same way again after that. That is why Valyria."

Ellaria blinks, her expression intent upon listening; it was as if she was unable to look away from him. There must have been something in his green eyes that told her this was a something of a rare moment—as he never really talked about Uncle Gerion –and she didn't want to throw it away.

"You lied to me, then." She said suddenly, as if compelled to speak her mind. He frowned slightly in return with the full intention to ask for an explanation, but with a softer tone, she added,

"You have lost someone, Tybalt."

Ellaria tilted he head thoughtfully, staring at him intently—it was as if she didn't know that she hadn't been the only one to feel that pain and experience that grief, but he was more than willing to make up for what his family had done to hers in his own ways. She needed someone to connect to, it seemed.

Tybalt gives a short nod. "And I did what my father expected of me.

I shut out the fact that I loved him. I shut out everyone. Numbers, letters, and a quill were my friends a family. Gold was our joy. While the boys adored Cersei and the girls adored Jaime, I had to imagine someone actually ever adoring me. Sure I suppose I am kind of handsome but the only time I swung a sword I nearly chopped Tyrion's head off.

Father says I was even more of a failure since I _didn't_ take his head."

His eyes wanted to reveal the sadness, to hold it there and let her see just how much he had been affected by the ordeal. Something wanting to appear on his face, but he forced down in the last moment. Ellaria had winced as his tone took a slightly darker turn than she had surely expected. The way he spoke of his family might have made him seem ungrateful, as hers was practically to longer present. That hadn't bene his intention, obviously, and he would have apologized in his next breathe. Abruptly, however, he wanted to ignore the fact that she was a Stark and he was a Lannister, that she was a Queen and he was a Lord—that they were sworn enemies in all things natural, the Lion and the Wolf. Tybalt wondered if Ellaria would choose to see him as still a man, and that she was still a woman; they were beings whom the Gods forced to succumbed to themselves, to their passions and their rages—and to the treatment they were given.

"At least now I know that I am no longer alone, in the fact that I am alone," Ellaria said as she searched his eyes for what he was hiding from her.

"I knew your father once. I thought him an unloving man, even then; all he cared for was the praise his name was showered with. Cersei is... Cersei. There are no words I can say to hide her true nature save that she is but a force to be reckoned with; she is shrewd and cunning and manipulative. I must say that your brother Tyrion is quite the character. He is whom I would favor, above the rest of your family. For a 'little imp' as Tywin so cruel puts it, Tyrion has a knack for getting himself both in and out of trouble with his words alone, I have seen it. Your brother Jamie is handsome, yes—but Seven Hells! His handsomeness is too much for me, and I find that it is unbearable to be around for too long..."

The moon was blanketed by the clouds again, and Ellaria paused and gave him a sideways glance. "Your handsomeness, however, suits me just fine."

Tybalt gave a heartfelt chuckle and smiled at her. "You do me honor, Your Grace. To be fair as well... you are quite the beauty too."

He felt his heart tug a bit in his chest at her sidelong glance and how her beautiful blue eyes caught the last hints of moonlight like a gem. He turned his eyes fully to her, the pain of his past subsiding beneath the compliments she gave him, and a fine red brow lifted slightly.

"So you can smile? I might have never known," Ellaria shook her head slightly and lifted her hood to block the wind, forced to lift her head in order to see him better.

"Why do you look at me that way?" she asked reluctantly, her brow knitting.

Tybalt raised a shiny golden brow in his own response. "What other way _would_ I look at you?"

Apparently unable to settle on one answer, she said,

"There must be several other ways, I would imagine. Seeing as I have held you in little more than a cage since we left Riverrun, save for the past few days. How are you feeling, by the way? I apologize for not asking you sooner, I was..."

She was babbling a little, and he was sure she was about to say something else when she settled for concluding with,

"I was preoccupied..."

Tybalt rolls his eyes. "It's alright. I'm used to having people preoccupied. My father didn't have any time for me because he was always "preoccupied" with matters. Those matters often being that he was with Jaime or Cersei."

Just then he realized his voice was becoming bitter so he quickly got back on track. "But I'm alive and well. You've treated me kindly for the uncle of the boy who called for your father's head. I cannot and will not complain."

"That's not what I meant," Ellaria began to say, but tried to start over. "You are not your brothers, nor your sister, but yourself. You are_ Tybalt_, and you are good. I would rather preoccupy myself with _you_ than any other Lannister a thousand times over."

Her words much not have registered in her mind for a few moments—much to Tybalt's personal delight in watching her –but he was able to tell when they did, and her face was set painfully aflame.

"I did not mean—I mean, but not in that way... Not to say that _that_ would so terrible, but—I mean—Seven Hells, never mind!" Ellaria huffed crossly, throwing up her hands.

A laugh escaped his lips and blew out into the cold air as he kept chuckling. He turned to her with a smile. "Then allow me to say that I'd rather preoccupy myself with _you_ than with your bannermen."

His emerald eyes still sparkled a bit even outside of the moonlight as his white teeth flashed at her, the laughter rolling off his tongue with ease.

"But of course you would, Tybalt. That still makes nothing better!" Ellaria rolled her eyes at him, unable to keep a small smile from her face.

After a few moments of having a more silent laugh to himself, Tybalt noted that she looked then towards the Godswood, cloaked in a deep darkness.

"Would you escort me? I must pray before I sleep."

He nods and proffers her his arm. "But of course. I've always been fascinated with the Godswoods. Makes the Old Gods seem so much more... alive than the Seven."

"Mother held to the Faith and so taught us their ways, but Winterfell's Godswood has stood for the past 10,000 years. The Faith has nothing like this that anyone knows about. I guess one could say that my siblings and I are more attuned to more the Old Gods than Faith? It is often hard to tell."

Ellaria took his arm and started into motion, walking towards the trees; she seemed unbothered for a torch, and she knew this place better than he ever could.

Tybalt nods. "We Lannisters aren't really one for gods, so you'll excuse me if I'm not inclined towards either the Old or New."

"Fair enough," was all she said as they broke through the dense trees and found them in the wood.

Instinct led Ellaria's feet as she led her escort through the wood silently for a ways, and sense a feeling he wouldn't recognize led Tybalt as he walked along at her side. It smelled of earth and a broodiness that would not go away, of the centuries that the wood had been dark, even by day. She led Tybalt past the Sentinels, Oaks, and Ironwoods, the Hawthorn, Ash, and Soldier Pines. Soon, they found the ancient Weirwood tree, with its blood red leaves and bone-white bark. Its melancholy face cried tears of blood, and Ellaria kept her breathe even so as not to disturb the peaceful quiet.

She reached out gingerly to brush her fingers against the crying face, as though she could sense warmth surging from the living wood beneath them.

"This tree is Winterfell," she said quietly. "Sansa once told me that she felt as though the Old Gods were watching with a thousand unseen eyes..."

Tybalt moved his fingers against it as well as he inspected it. "It's crying..." His voice is sad as he looks at it.

"All Weirwoods cry, Tybalt. As I said, this is Winterfell. Winterfell is empty—this tree weeps. The wolves are slaughtered, and this tree weeps. The earth is burned and the Keep crumbled- this tree weeps."

Ellaria drew her hand away; in the moonlight, they could plainly see smears of dark red on her fingers and the bark of the tree.

"Winterfell bleeds—this tree bleeds."

Tybalt looks into the eyes of the Weirwood only to be blown away with guilt. His family did this. He might as well have done this. He had always thought of the Lannisters as the good lions who defend their claim. Now... now they were killers of fathers, mothers, and kicked the orphans into the dirt. In that moment, he hates who he is...

She brought him back with a squeeze shoulder, and held a finger to her lips when he looked to her, signaling him to be quiet. Ellaria gave a heavy sigh and sat down on the cold, hard ground, guiding by his hand as his held hers for too brief a moment; she turned to lean her back against the tree and closed her eyes, a prayer on her lips as it surely always was whenever she came to the Godswood. She prayed silently and quietly, her breathe even and unlabored, her whispering voice as soft as the rustling of the canopy leaves.

Tybalt went over at a respectful distance and watched her silently as the moon came back out to cast its light on her. At that moment, she could have been the Maiden for all he knew. Her beauty was enhanced in such light as the silver beams reflected off her fiery hair and made her skin seem to glow. He watched as he heard her whispers going about like the wind, making him shiver.

Yes, it was official. Tybalt Lannister was going insane.

A small breathe escaped Ellaria's nose and an icy wind snapped at her, causing her to flinch and break her concentration. She nearly cursed before she caught herself, but was able to intertwine her fingers and settled deeper against the tree, as though to pray harder. He watched as Ellaria stayed that way, in the frigid, blood-freezing air for what seemed like hours, although only minutes had passed. When she was done at last, she opened her eyes to reveal a sheen of unshed tears. The young woman stood up on shaky legs and braced a hand against the tree. Looking up into his eyes, she spoke with complete and utter honesty in a rasp,

"I fear they will not hear me. I have been praying since my twin brother was murdered, Tybalt, and I fear that none of the Old or New will hear me."

Her fingers clenched into a fist, and she raked a hand through her hair in frustration.

"None of my prayers have been answered—my sister has not come home because no one will hear me..."

He was there in an instant, a comforting hand falling on her shoulder as he helped her stay steady. He moved her chin up to look into his eyes as he spoke softly.

"It may be bad to associate you with him but... when my mother had trouble birthing Tyrion, my father spent hours praying in the Sept. He prayed for hours on end, and when my mother died giving Tyrion life... he broke. I don't remember how many pots and plates and statues he smashed but last thing he did was tear apart the sept in a rage.

When we asked him about it he replied with, 'They didn't listen. Now I will make them.' When the gods do not listen, we have to do what WE can. We have to turn prayers into goals. You want your sister? Gods don't do that kind of work. You will have to do that.

And I will help you."

Ellaria went very still within the close proximity of himself, even when a tear fell onto her cheek. He was close enough so they could feel their natural warmth reaching out to each other. His golden hair was silver in the pale blue moonlight, and his eyes were a dark green that reminded one of the Wolfswood in the summer—they were so deep and so green and so bright that he felt as though they were drawing her in. Her soft skin was burning him, especially where their flesh made contact; his manhood preened in approvingly as he felt her cheeks catch fire and mimic her hair still.

But she started then, and smoothly took his hand in hers to remove her chin from his grasp. She then stepped out of his reach—it took everything in him m not to pull her back –and into the trunk of the heart tree; clearing her throat several times, she tore her gaze from his and replied,

"Y-yes—uhm, it is bad to associate me with your father. For one thing, I am no man," she gave a small, awkward laugh.

"But, ah, I suppose I would warn you first, if I'm about to denounce the Gods and annihilate my mother's Sept as though I were Aegon the Conquerer..."

Ellaria began to nod, and looked to him again.

"I could use some help in getting my sister back home, if you are willing to give it. I fear your father would crush me otherwise..." she cleared her throat again, and brushed the freshly fallen snow from her skirts and cloak.

A man's shout called her attention to the forefront, and she paused as she heard several men calling her name.

Ellaria frowned slightly, she asked Tybalt as she moved past him, "What could be going on?"

Tybalt shrugged and let her lead, "After you Your Grace."

As he followed her he shivered a bit. He had been close to her so that her breath was felt on his chin even now. Her eyes had been shimmering pools that he couldn't help but get lost in. Her hair was the same color as the Weirwood leaves above them. And in the moonlight, her figure was exquisite. Shapely, lovely, but strong and commanding as well. In his foolishness, he had disturbed her and forced her, and he knew it was true. She wouldn't think of him like that. Even now she backed away.

Him and her, they couldn't be together. He was a dishonorable Lannister; a man with gold hair and emerald eyes. A vicious lion. She was an honor born Stark; a Red Wolf with ocean eyes. She would marry a proud northern lord, most like. And he, knowing his father, would be married to some ally of the Lannisters. Certainly not as beautiful as the wolf before him and probably even less intelligent.

But he would not give up.

He would help her. Even if it killed him.

And if it did, he'd come back and enjoy haunting Cersei.


End file.
